


Friction

by plingo_kat



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Furiosa. Her breath fans out over his chin, they’re that close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friction

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt:
>
>> Angry frottage in the front seats of the truck while waiting for the truck's engines to cool down.
>> 
>> They're incredibly horny from the latest "we almost just died" action sequence, but neither wants to get naked for the other. Due to trust issues and trying to make it a dominance battle, not due to any body insecurities please. 
>> 
>> \+ Bonus points if the Wives in the backseat are awake, and watching.

Max wakes with a strangled gasp and a jerk, arm raised – ready to punch, ready to block. His eyes blink open, dry and blind in the dark, and he strains his ears over the pound of his heart and the whispers of ghosts. He can’t hear anything but the dull thud of his blood and a faint screaming, always screaming—

As he turns, his elbow brushes by something.

A moment later heavy weight crushes into his ribs; Furiosa is acting on instinct, just as he is, and her knee presses hard into the muscle of his thigh as she tries to pin him. He catches pieces of her face in a glimpse of moonlight: the bared gleam of teeth, the reflection of her irises, the shadowed blade of her nose.

He fetches up against the door. She fetches up against him, face close, and as he watches the awareness drain into her features he draws his mind in with it, until he is as sane as he ever gets now.

Furiosa. Her breath fans out over his chin, they’re that close. He can see her nostrils flare. He can feel the dull ache of her knee cutting off circulation in his thigh. He can feel the heavy metal of her arm pinning his own, her hips on his, her entire body radiating heat, like guzzoline, like anger. Like the sun.

He twists his hips and pushes hard with his leg to get her off, but instead of going flying Furiosa slides her knee in between his and pushes back. Max is suddenly aware of Furiosa’s naked skin, pebbling in the freezing air of the desert. The hair rises on the back of his neck.

There is a frozen moment where they stare at each other. He can count Furiosa’s eyelashes, how they cast soft shadows on her sharp cheeks and sweep through the moonlight. Everything goes quiet, even the whispers.

Then Furiosa is pushing him down, pushing him back until his head hits the dull plastic of the window and his spine is jammed against the truck door and she is lying on him, her body aligned with his from torso to knees, and then her mouth is on his—

Sweet, he thinks in surprise. Soft, not at all like the rest of her, hard words and lean body, tough enough to survive in Immortan Joe’s world. The kiss is tentative even as her grip on his wrist turns bruising, and he kisses back just as gently even as he grips her shirt in a white-knuckled fist. He can feel the quirk of her lips in something like a smile, and it’s enough warning for the sharp sting of her teeth to send a hot jolt deep into his stomach instead of icing his limbs over with panic.

She _laughs_ into his mouth as he surges upward, eager for more and willing to fight to get it, but she has leverage and slams him back down again. Their hips align and Furiosa sighs, grinding against him, and the knowledge lights him up, blazes in his brain – she is _using_ him for her pleasure. It drags a choked noise from his throat.

She bites him again, harder. Max’s hips jerk. His arm jerks too, jostling Furiosa from her perch on his thighs and groin and stomach, and her nails dig into the soft skin of his wrist. He twists his free hand tighter in her shirt and _pulls_. One of them slips, or both of them do – Max ends up half-falling into the footwell and Furiosa is all twisted up in the passenger seat.

It’s ridiculous. They have both escaped certain death at least six times in the past day, at least two times at the hand of the other, and now they are wrestling in the front seats of a stolen war rig with five-and-more women (plus a War Boy) sleeping only a few feet away. Max has to huff a laugh. Furiosa grins too, but her eyes are intent.

“Brace with your foot,” she says. The words are loud as a gunshot in the bare hush; the desert contains an open, empty kind of silence that creeps into the body.

Max obeys. Furiosa smiles.

“Good,” she says on the softest breath, and Max leans in to capture it with his mouth.

This time there is no surprise, no accidents. They run hands over each other’s bodies, grip cloth and limbs and skin, pushing and pulling as they chase their pleasure. Furiosa bites her way over Max’s chin, along his jaw and down his neck – he bares his throat for her, for her teeth scoring hot lines over trembling skin as he rumbles out a groan – she sucks a mark into the soft spot below his ear, tongue pushing into the sensitive hollow under his jaw. The metal of the door digs into his shoulders and he doesn’t care, uses it for leverage to thrust _up_ , needy and demanding against the gritty roll of her hips, pants chafing on just the right side of too much.

“Oh,” she says, softly, and presses down harder against him. When he blinks his eyes into focus to look at her, her mouth is open and wet, her expression revelatory. He can _feel_ the jerk of his cock, a hard thump of his heart pulsing his blood under his skin, and something must give him away because Furiosa leans back, tightens her thighs around his waist—

Reaches what she has been searching for. Max can’t think, can only watch and try to memorize the arched curve of her spine, the way her chin rises, her hips losing their rhythm as she comes, and on the third jerk she rubs _just right_ over the length of him and he is falling, falling, tension pouring out of him with each movement of her body against his until he is limp and panting on the seat.

Quiet settles around them again. Furiosa lies along him – on him, really – for a time, until their sweat begins to cool and his body makes it clear that it doesn’t appreciate the position he’s put it in.

“We leave at first light,” Furiosa says. She pushes herself up with one hand, stump braced upon the seat back for balance. He thinks she looks beautiful, sleek as a well-made machine and just as deadly. “Get some rest.”

“Mm,” Max says. He stretches with a subtle flex of muscles before settling back upright.

After that, with her sleeping next to him, he may even get several hours of rest uninterrupted by nightmares. It’s all he can hope for.

 

The next morning, his pants are itchier and normal and all of the stolen women look at him out of the corners of their eyes. When he raises an eyebrow in inquiry, they turn away and giggle with their fellows.

“They heard us,” Furiosa says, coming over to hand him a canteen. He takes a sip. “Last night.”

“…Mm,” Max says. He isn’t embarrassed – he has no reason to be. A glance at Furiosa shows that she isn’t either.

Good.


End file.
